Charles, Son of Erik
by Eldunari Liduen
Summary: After a night at the Opera, Raoul decides that perhaps Charles should be told who his father really is... Alternate ending for Susan Kay's novel. Two-shot.
1. Part 1: Raoul

**I do not own **_**Phantom of the Opera**_**. The opening section (in italics) belongs to Susan Kay, author of **_**Phantom**_**- a prequel/retelling of Leroux's novel.**

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><p>"<em>What a magnificent building!" he says with awe, as we step out into the cool evening air. "I wonder if the men who built it are still alive to marvel at their great achievement."<em>

"_Erik has been dead for seventeen years," I hear myself murmur softly._

"_Erik? Was he a friend of yours, Dad?"_

_The flicker of eager interest in his voice makes the corners of my mouth lift up in a sad, ironic smile._

"_Your mother knew him rather better than I."_

"_Was he an architect?"_

"_Architect, musician, magician, composer- a genius in very many fields…so I was once told."_

_The interest becomes a faintly puzzled frown._

"_I wonder why mother never spoke of him. It's a pity he died, isn't it? I'd have liked to know him."_

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><p>I pause, looking at the face that bears no resemblance to mine or hers. I wonder if he's even thought of that…<p>

"Yes. I think you would have." I dismount from the steps of the carriage we were to take back to our temporary residence here in Paris. The faintly puzzled frown returns.

"Dad?"

"Walk with me, Charles," I say and set off in the general direction of the Rue Scribe, thinking of the small, bronze key tucked safely in my pocket. For the first five years of our marriage, the key never left my person. I suppose I harbored a fear that he might not be dead, that she would return to him as she so often did before. Or perhaps it was to remind myself of what we went through that Godforsaken night. God knows why…

"Where are we going, Dad?" he asks, falling into step with me after only a moment's hesitation and letting the driver know we wouldn't be needing his services.

"If my memory serves us correctly, somewhere I never thought I would return to. Not in my right mind, at least."

He looks at me strangely. "And are you? In your right mind, I mean."

I chuckle. "Who knows?" I certainly don't. How will Charles react? He's been brought up to believe he is the only continuation of the de Changy line, not the product of…well, you know.

Soon enough the iron gate enters my vision. I stop so abruptly that Charles walks a few more steps before realizing that I have stopped.

"Dad, are you feeling alright?" he asks with concern on his face.

"Fine," I say and lay a hand on the cool, iron bars.

"It's sure to be locked."

"Not to those who have a key," I say and draw it from my pocket. I show it to him, insert it in the key hole, and turn it. We are rewarded by the creak of a gate that hasn't had occasion to be used in many years. Stepping through that portal, I motion for he who I falsely call my son to follow me. God knows why I've chosen to do this, but I've past the point of no return. Not turning back now from the truth. I can only hope that Charles will not start referring to himself in the third person.

"Dad, what is this place?" he asks as I remove the key and close the gate. The light from the street lamps filters between the bars.

"The shore of the lake under the Opera House," I reply, facing him.

"There is a lake under the Opera?"

"Yes. And if memory serves me again, upon the lake there is a boat. Help me find it, Charles." I turn from him and the light of the street lamps and carefully make my way over the slightly uneven terrain that I've traveled over only twice. There is another pause before I hear Charles start to follow me.

"Dad, are you sure we should be down here?"

"No," is the only reply I have for him.

"Should we leave, then?"

"Don't worry, Charles. The man who would have stopped us has been dead for seventeen years."

"You forget the other, monsieur," a voice says to our left in heavily accented French. Charles jumps at the sound, but I remain still. If it wasn't for the accent, I would have thought Erik had truly become a ghost and came back to haunt the Opera. "I am still very much alive."

"_Bonsoir_ Persian," I say and turn to face him as he emerges from the shadows and lifts the shutter from his lantern, bathing our little party in the glow of a single candle. "How are you this evening?"

"Dad, who is this?" Charles asks me, in English. "Or rather, who are you sir?" he asks him, reverting to French.

The Persian's head jerks at the sound of Charles voice. "Allah…" he says, looking the boy over before turning his gaze back to me. "Is he…?"

I give him a small, sad smile and a quick nod of my head.

"Young _monsieur_," he says, looking once again at Charles. "I am known as the Persian and Dagora. But you may call me Nadir, if you so wish."

"Are you a friend of my father's, Nadir?"

"You might say that," he says. "Why have you brought him here, Raoul?"

"I'm not sure myself," I reply. "Perhaps some part of me just wants him to know. I don't know."

"Do you think it wise, _monsieur_?" he asks.

I shrug my shoulders helplessly. "I really don't have a clue, but it is something I've got to do."

"What are you two talking about?" Charles asks, looking at both of us with his hazel eyes. I look away, but the Persian- Nadir meets Charles' gaze and holds it.

"Do you play any musical instruments?"

"The piano. And a little violin," he replies. "Why do you ask, sir?"

"So it should be. Come," he says, "I'll show you where the boat is. You have nothing to fear from me." Nadir starts to walk away from us and towards the shore where the light of his lantern reveals the same small boat that I remember from nearly two decades ago.

"Dad…?" Charles says, turning to me uncertainly.

"Charles," I say and take his hand in mine, "there is something that I need to show you, but only if you are sure you can forgive your mother and me." I think back on the time that Christine told me the same thing. The meaning had quite escaped me at the time.

"Of…of course, Dad. Whatever it is, I won't blame you or Maman."

"I hope so," I say, patting his hand. Together, we walk to the shore, our path lit by the Persian's lantern. After Charles and I are seated, he joins us in the boat and hands up the lantern to be hung from the front of the boat in order for it to light our path over the lake. Nadir takes up the long pole lying in the bottom of the small vessel. "Do you want me to row?"

"No, I'll manage. I've just come from there, you know."

I turn in my seat to face him, a million thoughts rushing through my head. "Why?" is all I can manage to get out.

"I've been keeping the place in order. It seemed a shame to let all his work just waste away to nothing. He had such genius. If only it had been used for good…"

"I wouldn't think there would be much to preserve," I observe. The last time I was in Erik's house, it had looked as if a hurricane had touched down in the heart of his secret residence. A hurricane of madness and grief…

"I do what I can," Nadir replies.

The only audible noise is the slap of water against the side of the little boat and the pole being drawn in and out of the lake. In just a few minutes, we reach the other side of the lake and look upon the house that holds so many memories and horrors for me.

"Who lives here?" Charles asks in awe. I suppose it isn't everyday one sees a perfectly normal looking house built into the foundation of a Parisian opera house by the shore of an underground lake.

"Erik liv_ed_ here," Nadir answers for me.

"Was he the same Erik as your friend, Dad?"

Behind me, the Persian gives a short snort of laughter before he can control himself. "Yes, Charles," I answer.

The boat finally hits the shore and Charles hops out and extends his left hand to help me out of the boat like the young gentleman he is. He offers help to the Dagora, but he refuses saying that he's been getting in and out of this boat long enough without anyone's help.

"You have the key?" the Persian asks. I nod. "Good. I'll wait here. Good luck."

"Thank you," I say and then turn to my son only by rearing and motion for him to follow me. Using the same key that opened the gate at Rue Scribe, I open the very usual looking front door to a very unusual house and lead Charles inside. Using the flame from the lantern, I light a few lamps and candles- enough for Charles to get a good look at his surroundings. It looks nearly the same as when I first saw this room. The scraps of sheet music have been cleaned up, the organ restored… the only thing missing is the coffin-bed.

"Dad… what _is_ this place?"

I draw a deep breath for courage before answering him.

"This is Erik's home that he built for himself long ago when the Opera was still under construction. This, Charles, is the home of…of," I swallow. Is it really necessary to tell him this? But if I don't, then he'll always wonder what I never told him deep in the cellars of the Opera Garnier.

"This is the home of your father. Your _true_ father," I say with a gasp. There it's done. Finished. We can't go back now.

He turns, eyes wide in disbelief. We stand facing each other for just a few moments. Then, he faints.

Damn. He must have gotten that from Christine.

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><p><strong>AN- Just a little idea I came up with while re-reading Susan Kay's **_**Phantom**_** the other night. Like it says in the summary, this story is NOT done yet. This is part one of two, so keep an eye out for the conclusion to this alternate ending to **_**Phantom**_**!**

**I would love to hear what you thought of this story. Please drop me a review!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Part 2: Charles

**I don't own **_**Phantom of the Opera**_**.**

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><p>My eyes snap open as if I'm awakening from a bad dream. But where could I be? This couch I'm lying on doesn't seem familiar, nor do the walls… Then it suddenly comes flooding back. The Persian. The Lake. The house. My father's confession…<p>

"Dad?" I call out in the half-darkness. Maybe there's a chance that was part of a nightmare, somehow.

"I'm here, Charles," he says from a chair near my head. He takes my hand as I sit up. "I'm here. Are you alright?"

"Dad, what you said…is it true?"

He closes his eyes and takes on the appearance of someone fighting with their inner demons for just a moment before he replies. "Yes."

I take my hand from his and walk to the bench of the magnificent organ adorning an entire wall. I touch the ivory keys lightly, trying to make sense of my dad- no… yes… I don't know! He's my dad… yet he's not. "The man who lived here, Erik, was it? He- he's my…?" I don't even want to voice it. I can't even look at him. It can't be true…

Behind me, I hear the quiet rustle of cloth as he stands and walks over to me. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand reach into his pocket and withdraw a small, black, oval frame. He hands it to me and says, "Let this be your answer. It was mine."

I open it to reveal twin portraits. On one side is a woman who looks very much like my mother did when she was younger and before that horrible disease took her away from Earth. And on the other side…

"It's me," I say in wonder. A slightly older version of myself, but it's still me. "How?" I ask, turning to face him once again.

With a sigh, he sinks onto the bench and seems to age another five years. "I took it from this very room that day. Don't ask me why."

"What day?" I ask, joining him on the bench.

"It seems so long ago… So very long ago…"

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><p>Dad's gone into one of the other rooms in this house to "give me time to think."<p>

But I don't know what to think.

He's spun a tale so fantastic and utterly unbelievable, but the proof is all around me. Still, it's so hard to believe that my mother was the object of adoration for a man who masqueraded as the Phantom of the Opera since its opening. Though perhaps not too difficult to believe seeing as how I am in existence.

I stand from the bench that I've been sitting at for the past hour and walk over to the shelves on the perpendicular wall. They seem to hold scores of music though they are quite under capacity. I suppose these are the only works to survive his grief… A sudden impulsiveness grabs hold of me and my hand flies out and grabs hold of one of the pieces. I don't bother to look at the title before taking it over to the organ, retaking my seat, and setting the piece on the organ. It is simply titled _Angel._But the subtitle is what catches my eye. _A Piece for my Beloved Angel of Music- Christine Daa__é__. _

Before I can start to play, a memory of the first time I attempted to play the organ comes flooding back. I was five- maybe six. My musical inclinations started at a very early age. It was at the church that we attended in England as a family. I had pulled away from Maman for just a moment so that I could touch the lovely instrument that I saw every Sunday without fail. Maman hadn't noticed that I had slipped away from her until the first notes rang out through the ornate building. She had simply stood there, transfixed with a look of horror upon her face. Dad had quite literally sprinted over to the hard, wooden bench I had climbed on top of and scooped me up.

I suppose that is when they started to put the pieces of my true identity together.

I open up the score and start to play _Angel_. It's magnificent. No. The word doesn't even begin to describe the beauty of the music. Dad was right. Erik was a genius. I can even hear the echoes of my mother's laughter in the music…

As I have so many times before, I loose myself in the music. I let it surround me and just for a moment I can almost forget the unreal situation I've found myself in. It's not until the last note's echo fades that I realize that Dad is standing just behind me.

"Your…father would have been proud," he says. His blue eyes are gleaming with unshed tears.

"I would hope my Dad would be too," I tell him. Yes, Erik was my father but Raoul raised me. He shall always be my good old Dad.

"Of course," he says and leans over to give me a hug.

"I don't blame anyone," I say as he releases me from a bear hug much like the ones he used to give me when I was a small child.

He gives me a small smile. "We- we should probably go. We still need to find a carriage. It could be difficult if we wait too much longer."

"Right," I say. I grab the folio of music as I stand. "You don't think he'd-"

"I think he'd be honored."

"Will we ever come back?"

Dad laughs, "You'll have to come by yourself next time. I don't know if I can make the journey again."

Together we exit the house, making sure to extinguish the few candles we lit. Outside, Nadir looks at us expectantly.

"_Merci_ _monsieur_," I say, "for helping my Dad all those years ago. And for being a friend to my father."

He nods his head. "You are quite welcome _monsieur_ Charles."

The gondola ride back to the opposite shore is uneventful. We disembark and Nadir gives me his calling card. "If you ever need anything," he says as he places it in my hand. I see the meaning in his eyes. Dad was able to tell me precious little about Erik. Perhaps Nadir will be able to tell me more about my father.

Outside the Rue Scribe entrance, Dad and I are able to find a carriage back to our temporary residence here in Paris. Nadir assures us that he doesn't live too far away and it won't be too much trouble for him to walk. Once the door is closed and the horse starts to move a silence descends on the cab.

"So, Dad, you know the dog that we ran over on our way to dinner?"

"Of course."

"I was wondering if we could take her back to England with us."

"Oh, Charles. There are so many laws that restrict that. She'd have to be isolated for a month just to make sure she doesn't carry any diseases, you know."

"Please?"

He sighs. "I suppose so. Do you have a name in mind?"

My mind flicks back to the other pieces on the shelf.

"Sasha."


End file.
